


Brand New World

by Snoweylily



Category: James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: Alec is a good bro, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF James Bond, Eve Moneypenny is a Good Friend, F/F, F/M, Fanon Alec Trevelyan, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, James Bond Has Issues, M/M, Multi, Pre-007 James Bond, Protective Alec Trevelyan, Q Branch, Q Has a Cat, Q is not a Damsel in Distress, Regeneration, Resurrection, Romance, Young James Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-05-18 11:16:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19333450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snoweylily/pseuds/Snoweylily
Summary: Bond was never quite sure what he was; he only knew that his mother was the same and despite all of her 'accidents', she never really stayed dead. He didn't either, when his time came. He lived to see the rise and fall of World War 2, watched as Vietnam got invaded and the Berlin Wall fell, and kept coming back with a new body, a new face, but the same love of Queen and country.





	1. James Bond

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my 30th fic! _(she says all the while knowing there are others still due to be updated)_
> 
> It's James Bond, a mash-up between the novels and movies, and is told in the 3rd Person POV. The plot is centred on Bond, _obv_., and his life if things were just that *little* bit different and resurrection really _was_ a hobby of his. So I guess you could say he's _almost_ a Timelord? Sort of? I don't know, the point is, he regenerates in his own unique Bond-ish way, and **I hope you guys enjoy and hit the subscribe button!**
> 
> Rachel :)

[](https://s300.photobucket.com/user/Snoweylily/media/Icon_zps1e9jycim.png.html)

**Chapter 1**

James Bond was born on the 11th November 1917, a stormy Sunday in the highlands of Scotland exactly one year after the Canadian forces captured the last of the Regina Trench from the Germans, and one year before the First World War ended, leaving fourteen million dead and over twenty million injured.

He always found that rather fitting, considering what he could do.

His father, Andrew Bond of Glencoe, took one look at the silent bundle and sneered. His mother, a beautiful Swiss woman named Monique Delacroix, held him even tighter and cried.

It wasn't until he was much older that he realised he had been stillborn.

Not that he ever let _that_ stop him.

James Bond was never quite sure what he was; he only knew that his mother was the same and everyone else was not, and that despite all of her _accidents_ when his father was around, she never quite stayed dead. Not even the time she supposedly fell off the roof and her son spent an entire week by her bedside before she woke up, her eyes a darker colour than before, something entirely different about her nose, and the blonde locks he had inherited from her nowhere in sight. She was still beautiful, though, was always beautiful to him, no matter how many times she transformed. She was still his mother no matter what, and promised to never leave him even when mangled and unrecognisable and bedridden for months on end.

When he turned eleven years old and was told that his parents had been killed in a freak climbing accident, he waited… and waited… and waited…

But she never came back.

The maids and servants took pity on him, watching as he stared out the window day after day, and told him that it was okay, that she was in a better place now, that everything would work itself out.

He couldn't tell them the truth, of course not, his father had long since drilled into him never to let his _ability_ be found out, so he nodded and smiled and cried and _waited_.

Then their bodies were recovered.

And James Bond wondered, for the first time ever, if perhaps there was a limit on this whole regeneration thing.

Either way, it allowed him to fight for King, Queen, and country without the fear of being found out. Double 0's had a notoriously short life expectancy, after all, but when you were just a title and not a name... well. No one really noticed the similarities. But that wouldn't happen for another decade yet.

Back in the present, his parents are dead, he's now an orphan, and isn't that just wonderful?

* * *

It didn't take long to find a relative, his father's sister, an aunt he had never even heard of before currently living in Kent. Miss Charmian Bond was strict but kind, and never questioned why he flinched every time she rose her voice, though she did take to speaking in softer tones soon after. He completed his early education, got accepted in Eton College at age 12 on a scholarship where he was mocked and bullied by two future prime ministers and a prince. He lasted two halves before getting drunk on cheap whiskey and kissing a maid in a broom closet. They got caught, of course, and while she was given a harsh scolding, he was told to pack his bags. Aunt Charmain had picked him up without a word, though disapproval marred her pretty features, and he was told he would be attending Fettes College in Scotland, his father's school, and if he got himself sent down she would personally skin him alive herself before sending him back.

He wondered briefly if she knew of his ability.

But James Bond had learned his lesson. He kept to himself, established some firm friendships among the traditionally famous athletic circle, and threw all his excess energy into wrestling and judo. He was smart, having being fluent in English, German, and French by age 10, and he studied enough to keep himself in the Top Five of his year.

He was 16 when Aunt Charmain was killed in an automobile accident.

* * *

He attended her funeral, completed his final exams, hung around just long enough to tell his friends not to expect contact anytime soon, and then used some of his inheritance to buy a one-way ferry ticket to France.

It was there that he first learned about love.

He knew from a young age that while his mother cared deeply for his father, his father did not feel the same. Asides from them, there was the head maid who had a husband though he never saw them together, and Aunt Charmain, who had remained single until her death, so he had never really thought about love and relationships until suddenly there was a beautiful blonde standing in front of him in a café and asking in lilting French if he wanted to buy her a coffee.

It was also in Paris that he learned about heartbreak.

So, he packed his meagre bags once more and left, catching the first train he saw.

* * *

He ended up in Geneva, Switzerland, _of all places_ , and immediately his thoughts turned to his mother and of her life here before she met that bastard of a man who called himself her husband. He wandered the city, taking in everything, eating authentic Swiss cuisine and speaking fluently in both German and French with the locals. He found a small apartment with cheap rent in a bad side of town, but that didn't bother him because he was well-versed in martial arts and knew how to handle himself. He explored every place he was allowed into, and even a few that he wasn't, before finally coming to a halt in front of a large peach-coloured building with stone bricks and large windows and even taller pillars.

The University of Geneva.

James Bond didn't know what he wanted to do with his life, he honestly didn't think he'd make it past childhood between his father's heavy hand and his own penchant for finding trouble. But now, here he was, 16 years old in his mother's hometown, older and taller and curiouser that he ever thought he'd be.

He decided to enrol.

University was both _exactly_ like and _nothing_ like he'd thought it'd be. He attended every lecture he could, psychology and law and world languages, made his way through the college library at a terrifying speed, and could usually be found collapsed on top of a textbook or downing coffee underneath the old marble arches in the courtyard. He found new friends, though never got quite as close to them as he used to, and made a name for himself on both the rowing and fencing teams. He had lost his Scottish accent many months before, could pull off being a local with some concentration, and lived life to the fullest.

As with everything else, however, he soon became bored.

* * *

When summer arrived and his exams finished, he contemplated returning to England, but the thought of that dreary familiar place depressed him. Scotland was no longer his home, he had been quite turned off France for some time, and Geneva was slowly beginning to lose its charm. He decided to head east instead, into Austria.

It was there that he met Hannes Oberhauser.

Initially weary of the man, they soon bonded over their shared love of sport and danger, and James Bond couldn't help but see him as a sort of father figure. The older man, in turn, treated him like a son. He was a realist, like himself, and had lost many friends in the Great War, and even more because of mountain climbing. But still, he continued to do what he loved, and his zest for life was undefeated.

On the mountainside of Kitzbühel, Oberhauser taught him how to ski.

He took to it like he took to all sports; quickly, obsessively, and _perilously_.

He started opening up to the man about his life, something he'd never done before, and found himself talking of his childhood as they sat out in the cold sun with blistered hands and aching legs. He told him of his father, of his aunt, of France and his new start, of heartbreak and Switzerland, and of here, now, as he chased his latest adrenaline-packed adventure, needing the rush, the pleasant buzz, the hazardous _danger_ in order to feel something, everything, _anything at all._

The Austrian remained silent during his tales, understanding and sympathetic, but never, not once, ever _pitying_. He told him to learn from the past, to embrace his mistakes and study them, to never forget but to move on nevertheless.

"Do you intend to live your life out with a load of guilt?" He asked one night, passing him the bottle of Jameson's, "Will you continually blame yourself whenever things go wrong? If you go on like this, son, the past _will_ finally destroy you".

"What do you suggest I do?"

Oberhauser caught his gaze and pointed at the mountains in front of them.

"Climb them" He said, "and don't _ever_ look back".

James Bond became quite proficient at skiing. He was good, _really_ good, and Oberhauser was an even better instructor. He entered a few small league competitions and won, entered a few more important ones, and won those too. He was teased and taunted by fellow skiers, skiers with fancy equipment and designer sports gear and names and titles he couldn't pronounce. He put up with them, for the most part, reminding himself that the last time he'd taken on his bullies he'd gotten himself kicked out of school. He was better than all of them put together, anyway.

But still, they made fun of his skis and clothes and his style, or rather, _lack of it_ , and he resented them for it. They, in turn, took every opportunity to make a fool of him.

It all came to a head one faithful morning at the end of summer when they dared him to ski down Harakiri.

And like an _idiot_ , he accepted.

* * *

Having spend a few months practising, James Bond had gotten cocky. And despite all warnings from Oberhauser to keep his cool and ignore the taunts, despite his own past experiences with giving into his anger and lashing out, he arrogantly believed that he could not only best his tormentors, but he could take on the steepest skiing slope in all of Austria in the process.

They met him at the base of the mountain, so early it was still dark, and laughed and jeered as he made his way to the lifts.

By the time he reached the top, they were no longer laughing.

The Harakiri ski slope had gotten its name for a reason, after all, as anyone who risked it without the proper training were indeed suicidal. It had a vertical drop of almost 400 meters, had a length of more than three times that, and a bad reputation that was known by every professional skier in the world.

A thick blanket of snow had fallen during the night, and as James Bond trudged through it in order the reach the highest point of the mountain, he couldn't help but admire the spectacular beauty of the death trap before him. The sun was just beginning to rise over the valley, and white speckled evergreens glistened along either side of the trail.

Once in position, the no-longer smiling group of teens begged him to turn around, to come back, to _stop, man, for the love of god, stop!_

He put on his goggles, and without looking back, pushed himself over the edge.

* * *

He knew immediately he'd made a mistake.

* * *

Flying down the trail, the wind bit into his skin and burned his cheeks while the sun reflected off the snow and half-blinded him. For the first hair-raising mile of the descent, he maintained control with nothing except a cheap pair of skis and the will to stay alive. His mind was clear, _very_ clear, every fight or flight instinct he had kicking in and screaming at him to _stop_. The closeness of death sharpened his reactions, adrenaline pumping through his veins, the absolute _terror_ feeding him like a drug as he passed the half way mark and narrowly avoided a large fir. He began to grin, despite it all, thinking that he was right, he could _do_ this, he was going to _win_ the dare and he was going to _wipe the grin off of their smug faces!_

It was far too late when he saw the clump of trees directly in front of him, half-covered by the snow and too close for him to stop, his skis slipping in the fresh ice and spinning and his hands quickly coming up to protect his face and a startled yell bubbling its way out of his throat and-

James Bond didn't remember much, after that.


	2. James

**Chapter 2**

He slowly came to, head peculiarly fuzzy and chest exceedingly warm, with his very soul _screaming_ at him in pain. His entire body felt _wrong_ , like he had been shrunk and squeezed inside someone else's skin, and every muscle and every bone _ached_. He didn't know how long he lay there, unable to move or speak or even just open his eyes as he tried to recall what had happened. He remembered only flashes; heavy boots trudging through the fresh snow, laughing and jeering from faceless bodies on either side of him, and then piercing wind and cutting ice and pain _and pain and pain and-_

* * *

When he next regained his senses, he felt stiff, achy, like he'd been lying in the same position for far too long. He briefly considered the idea that he was dead, but asides from that being rather impossible for him, he also believed that heaven wouldn't have as much pain and hell would surely have more. He drifted, time and place becoming irrelevant, the only constants being the throbbing in his head and the pure exhaustion in his bones.

* * *

Eventually, he became aware of a faint humming at his side, a wordless tune that would start and stop intermittently without any reason or rhyme. He began to latch onto that voice, dredging up memories from long ago when he would remain bedridden with the flu and his mother would sing lowly to help him sleep.

Could this be his mother?

The next time he woke, he forced himself to focus, pouring all his non-existent energy into opening his eyes, eyes that felt heavy and strange and just _wrong_ and-

The woman sitting next to him smiled, softly, sweetly, just like his mother used to.

Had she finally come back for him?

She didn't look like herself, or like any of her past selves, but that didn't mean a thing, not to them, so maybe this _was_ her, maybe she really _had_ survived all those years ago and was biding her time for whatever reason that would surely be a _good_ reason and now here she was returning for him so they could be a _family_ again and live without the fear of his _father_ and-

There was no recognition in her eyes.

She was beautiful, and warm, and _oh so_ _kind_ , but there was no realisation in her gaze, no flicker of motherly love or maternal concern and suddenly there's a sharp stab in the base of his stomach, so sharp that tears form in the corner of his eyes and leave hot trails running down his cheeks. The beautiful woman, _the stranger_ , frowned at him as her humming trailed off, mistaking his grief for pain.

Which, yea, okay, he felt that too, but not as intensely as _this_.

He wanted to ask who she was, and _where_ he was, and what had happened to lead him here, but his voice seemed to have vanished and his limbs refused to cooperate. Everything felt _foreign_ somehow, like something crucial was missing, and for a brief moment he panicked, thinking that he'd managed to lose a limb thanks to that stupid stunt he pulled and _hang on_ , where had those teenagers gone and how did this stranger find him and just _where the hell_ _was Oberhauser?!_

He felt a cool cloth being placed on his forehead as the quiet humming started up once more, and before he knew it, he was gone.

* * *

When he next woke up, and actually properly _did_ wake up, he could feel a difference immediately.

To begin with, the pain was mostly gone, having retreated to the back of his mind like a dull ache, always there but much easier to ignore. Secondly, the humming had stopped completely and he could hear muted movements coming from what sounded like a kitchen. And lastly, not only could he open his eyes with relative ease, but he could also wiggle his fingers and twitch his toes.

It was only a small leap from that to moving his entire limbs, and thankfully, _entire_ limbs was what he had, counting four separate appendages as he tried to regain control of his own body.

Slowly shifting, he managed to get both arms underneath him and stable enough to _lift_ , until suddenly, he was leaning back against the headboard of a bed and staring at the small yet cosy room around him.

He didn't recognize anything, not that he had been expecting to, but the realisation still brought with it a sense of unease. Pushing it away, he turned his gaze back down to himself, apathetically taking account of the myriad of bandages lining both arms and four of his fingers.

Decidedly _small_ fingers, he noted with a frown, holding up his hand to inspect them. Those weren't _his_ fingers, they couldn't be, they were far too small and bony to be his own sport-calloused hands.

His arms were different too, he found, shorter and somewhat stockier. The same was true for his legs, when he finally got up the courage to push the blankets aside, and they were also just as heavily bandaged as the rest of him. The stretches of skin that he _could_ see, were splotched with yellow and green bruises, mostly faded but still very much there.

He was _different_.

His entire body was different, like someone had taken him apart and put him back together incorrectly, as if he had lost all of his own limbs and another's were sown back on, almost like he had-

* * *

_Like he had regenerated._

* * *

He felt a bubble of panicked laughter burst from his throat.

He had wondered how he'd managed to survive the fall.

Turns out, he _hadn't_.

* * *

A noise at the door grabbed his attention, and he quickly turned only to see the humming woman standing there, a tray in her hands.

They stared at each other in surprise.

"Hallo" She eventually said, smiling at him.

He cautiously smiled back, "Hallo".

_His voice was different too._

"Wie heißen Sie?"

His- His name? She wanted his name?

"My name is- I- I mean, ich- ich heiße James".

_What sort of voice was that?_

"James" She repeated, frowning, "Sie sind kein Österreicher?"

"Nein" He replied, finally recognising his new accent with a _pang_ , "Ich bin Schottisch".

_And wasn't that just ironic?_

* * *

On the tray was a simple meal of soup, bread, and cheese, but he devoured it within seconds, gaining a rather startled look from the woman- _Helga, she had called herself_ -before she stood to get him more. He briefly remembered the same side effect in his mother every time she'd changed, watching in awe as she emptied every plate the cook had given her. He felt another spasm in his heart, longing for the home he had lost half a decade before, though if Helga noticed the tears in his eyes, she thankfully refrained from mentioning them.

He quickly found out over his fourth meal that it had been Helga's brother that had found him, half buried in the snow at the foot of the Harakiri ski slope. He'd thought that a skier had forgotten a jacket and had intended on returning it to the lost and found, before he realised that there was a person still wearing the coat. One panicked call to Helga later had them both digging out the snow with plastic shovels, careful not to hit James himself, before pulling him out the rest of the way and carrying him back to their cabin. He'd been half-dead, frozen stiff with the cold, and had multiple lacerations covering both arms and parts of his legs. Some had even required stitches, hence the myriad of bandages, and as far as Helga and her brother were concerned, James was bloody well lucky to be alive.

He tried desperately not to snort at that statement, knowing full well the strange looks he'd get in return, and considered _them_ lucky to not have found him before the whole reforming-with-an-entirely-new-body part was done.

They probably wouldn't have reacted quite so generously if they had.

It was three days later before he was well enough to stand by himself, and another two before he could walk on relatively steady feet. It took another day and a half after that before he was brave enough to look at himself in the mirror.

He was _young_ , was his first thought, staring in shock at his shorter, stockier frame, closer to 15 or 16 rather than the 17-and-a-half years he actually was. He looked like he should still be in _Fettes_ , rather than a university graduate. The eyes that stared back at him weren't his either, less round and more brown. His hair was dark, his nose larger and his mouth smaller and his eyebrows much _much_ thicker.

 _Huh_.

"Ist etwas los?" Helga asked, poking her head around the bathroom door, but he quickly shook his head.

There was nothing _wrong_ , per say, it was all just… very very _different_.

* * *

He left the kind siblings two weeks later with a small rucksack of food and clothes and a post office to contact them at if he should ever need to. Returning to where he had stayed with Oberhauser was futile; the man had left Austria not soon after James Bond's 'disappearance' without leaving a forwarding address, so he continued on, back into Switzerland. He got more than a few odd looks from passing strangers, much to his chagrin, as they only saw a young boy travelling alone, but he made it back to his flat in Geneva without much trouble. Picking the old and rusty lock hadn't taken him long, and within an hour he had collected everything he needed and was on a train northbound.

James wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but knew he couldn't return to his old life, not now, with a new face, a new body, a new _age_. But his Scottish accent was as thick as ever, though not from the same region he had grown up in, and he found himself returning to Britain without realising. Once there, he made his way to Kent, back to Aunt Charmain's house which she had left him in her will. The key was still hidden under the doorstep, he soothed the neighbours with a charming grin and the promise of being close friends with 'young Mr Bond', and _yes_ it really was ironic that they were _both_ called James, now, wasn't it?

_So._

He had a place to live.

He had enough money to get by.

And he even had a college degree, technically speaking.

Now, he just needed to restart his life and move on.

* * *

He found himself drifting down to the coast towards Chatham Dockyard, where navy ships were being built and officers in crisp white uniforms walked past and James, _just James_ , decided that being a soldier was as fine a career as any. And besides, it wasn't as if he didn't know how to fight and by now he was fluent in four major European languages, so really, he already had a head start in the military anyway, so why not join?

He enlisted using his real name and a fake age, using his original birth certificate to prove that he was 19 and not actually 17 like his current body suggested. He was accepted, and trained, and put on a Royal Navy Destroyer with a pat on the back and a "don't let those Nazi's scare you, lad!" before being sent off to god-knows-where.

But James was a good soldier.

A _really_ good soldier.

He excelled at every task he was given, rising through the ranks at an astonishing speed, one that was miraculous for his young age, fake though it may be. He quickly realised that he was _good_ at this, he was good at protecting people, at fighting, at defending Queen and country, but more importantly, he realised that he _liked_ doing it too.

He risked his life for his fellow crewmen, throwing himself in front of bullets and grenades and, on one terrifying occasion, an actual real-life _shark_. He was good at risking his life because, _well_ , he knew he'd have another one after. And as horrifying and painful and _sickening_ the whole regeneration process was, if it meant that one more sailor got to go home to see his kids? Then it was worth every single agonizing moment.

It didn't take long to make a name for himself.

But with fame, came rumours.

His superiors were no longer in awe when they heard of his latest selfless act, and hushed whispers in ship corners became less and less about his patriotism and dedication and more about his reckless endangerment of himself and others. Once the word 'suicidal' was thrown into the mix, James knew he had to get out. So he thought long and hard about his future, considered all his possible options, and waited until 'Corporal' became 'Lieutenant' became 'Commander' and 'Victory is Ours!' was plastered on every newspaper in England, before tendering his resignation.

He packed his bags, gave a smile to the few genuine people onboard, and left, once more a nameless face in a crowd of washed out strangers.

* * *

He made his way to London, finding a reasonably priced one-bedroom flat with great difficulty, and then spent a week readjusting to living on land again before filling in the application and sending it off. In early February 1946, he was finally called into an office on the sixth floor of the Regent's Park headquarters, to meet Sir Miles Messervy, the Head of the Secret Service.

Or, _M_ , as he soon came to be called.

Original-M, that was, for there would be many more M's along the way. Not he knew that yet, of course.

The man was serious, efficient, and no-nonsense and James' first impression of him was unfavourable. Perhaps it was the pipe. He had never cared for pipe-smokers since Eton, especially not after that drug addicted headmaster had kicked him out. And there was something very _cold_ in M's manner, no welcome or friendly introduction, not even an invitation to sit down. It was as if the man hadn't yet realised they'd won the war.

He didn't dislike him for long, however, as with that stern attitude came a great soldier and an even better man. It just took a while for him to figure that out.

"Commander Bond, I have been looking at your records… An interesting career. Experience like yours must be unique" He said, "It remains to be seen, however, whether we can use you. Things are changing fast; the post-war pattern of the service will be very different from what you are used to. What I propose is that you to go to America for us, on attachment to the Office of Strategic Services in Washington. They've requested someone with field experience and you've been highly recommended".

_No thanks._

"It's quite a chance, Commander. Be sure to make the most of it".

_Oh. So it wasn't an option, then._

* * *

James wasn't sure whether to be pleased or not, but eventually his curiosity of the New World won out, and he found himself on a plane to New York exactly one week later. The city was bright and alive and full of so much _colour_ , that dreary grey London could never be the same again. He bought stupid things, frivolous things, just because he could. He bought a Zippo lighter and a Hoffritz razor, Ferry tickets and tram rides, leather shoes and designer suits. It was the richest city in the world, and he planned on making the most of it.

Once in Washington, the Embassy took care of him, restricting his movements and feeding him when they liked and telling him where to sleep and when to wake and-

And after New York it felt stiff and formal _far_ too pretentious.

But he kept his head down, he did was he was told, and after successful breakthrough after successful breakthrough days, weeks, and months on end, the O.S.S. contacted M and asked if they could _keep_ him.

"You'll do no such thing" came the gruff reply, "Put him on the next flight home. We need him. _Now_ ".

* * *

He was met in the airport by a silent man wearing a dark suit, led to an even darker car, and driven back to HQ. There, he was to dine with M himself, a rare honour if the rumours were anything to go by.

"The American's were quite pleased to have you in their ranks" He started, "They claimed you were the best agent we've ever sent, despite only being an Officer… They also said you subdued every attack and/or argument that came your way, topping the class in every training simulation they gave".

He shrugged and told the truth, "I enjoy fighting, sir".

M studied him closely.

"Things have changed a lot since you've been away. The opposition has been keeping us on our toes and we have had to regroup accordingly".

James nodded, though he didn't understand where this was going.

"It's an unpleasant fact of life that in our business we sometimes have to kill our enemies. The opposition makes no bones about it. I doubt you've heard of S.M.E.R.S.H. but-"

"Smiert Spionam" He interrupted, and M glanced up quickly, surprise flickering briefly in his dark eyes.

"… Yes" He said, "Well, as we know, for two years now they've run their training school outside Irkutsk. They have a special course in what they are pleased to call _liquidation_. They also have a section specially devised to cope with all assignments which have… assassination elements. A few months ago, I formed a section of our own to deal with it. It's called the double-O section. I think it might suit you".

"You mean you want me to be part of our own murder squad?"

"Nothing of the sort!" He snapped, "That may be the way _they_ do things, but by _God_ , that's not how we do things here. This is a crisis and there can only be one survivor. We need men like you".

"… And if I refuse?"

"Then you'll stay where you are. A Petty Officer, sent on liaison missions and civil discussions until you grow as old and as grey as me".

He winced, having learnt long ago that a boring, dull, _normal_ life was most certainly not for him.

"Commander… _James_ " M continued, catching his attention, "You're being offered the highest possible position in the Secret Service, a rank that most agents would quite literally _kill_ for… You'll get to travel the world, meet people from all cultures and backgrounds, and try every delicacy known to man. Yes, there _will_ be assassinations, and yes, you _will_ be the one pulling the trigger… but it's a small price to pay. You've killed for Queen and country before, so why stop now?"

* * *

Three months of gruelling training later, he was both physically, mentally, and emotional exhausted. He was put through his paces in combat, in weaponry, and the so-called 'torture chamber', an RTI method where for three days straight, faceless men tried to _break_ him. He found the whole thing rather amusing, to be honest, knowing that their threats of a 'slow pain filled death' couldn't exactly be carried out. He spent the next few weeks recovering and learning about modern technology, how cipher machines and computers would take over the world some-day, and despite his doubts, he kept his grades nothing short of _excellent_. By the time he got his official pass for HQ, he felt that he'd more than earned it.

* * *

A few weeks after, the title of double-o was all but thrown at him, once he made his mandatory two kills during a rather unforgettable night of adrenaline and pain in BSC Headquarters back in New York. But that promotion, and the realisation of constantly leaving death and destruction in his wake, led to a whole other problem.

James could still remember with perfect clarity the day he requested a meeting with M to explain the whole not-dying thing. The pipe-smoking man sat behind his desk in equal parts shock and disbelief until the double-o seriously considered calling medical. It took four H. Upmann's and a particularly expensive bottle of brandy before M started making sense of it all, so James told him his name, date of birth, his _real_ date of birth, and all about his parents lives, how his mother had married his father as an Italian but died as a Swiss, how he moved all over Europe as a teen, and how he was both killed and reborn in Austria, before finally, _finally_ , the man began to accept it for the truth.

After he had used every possible source he had to confirm the story, of course.

During the midst of a secret war, with technology never before seen, M was ready to believe to pretty much anything, especially if it gave Britain an advantage. So, he was given a slap on the back, a new code-name, and sent off to Jamaica to investigate the murder of MI6's station chief and his secretary.

James wondered how long it'd be before he tired of this job, too.


	3. Scottish-7

**Chapter 3**

And just like that, he was no longer James Bond, no longer just James, he was _007_.

A nameless title working in a nameless building filled with other nameless people, sent out to protect Queen and country with a gun and a licence to kill.

So there he was, on a plane to Jamaica for his first mission as a double-O, feeling excited and nauseous and invincible and _completely_ _out of his dept_. He's picked up by a chauffeur claiming to have been sent to bring him to King's House and it was only by pure luck that he realised the man's true intentions, and one panicked and adrenaline filled car chase and combat later, the man lay unnaturally still at his feet having swallowed cyanide.

Not two minutes in and already someone was dead.

Wonderful.

* * *

He eventually arrived at Strangways' house, sweating and shaking and trying his best to hold it all together, feeling like everyone was _staring_ at him, like everyone _knew_ that he'd just technically _killed_ a man and he doesn't know how to _introduce_ himself to anyone because he shouldn't even _be_ there but he can't sound nervous or happy or _any_ emotion really and here he is playing poker across from a beautiful woman and being asked for his name and-

"Trench. Sylvia Trench".

 _Huh_.

That was quite good, actually.

He might use that.

And so began the construction of this new form, a strange title and an even stranger face, built around a charming smile and a suave greeting and he slowly but surely became the witty, tough 007 he thinks he was always meant to be because between the vodka martinis and the fast cars and the femme fatales, he gets the feeling that he's coming _home_.

* * *

While investigating the boathouse, he's introduced to Felix _(for the first time)_ and they immediately hit it off, 007 feeling more confident and capable once he knows he's got a CIA agent watching his back. The sailor mentions the name 'Dr. No', a curious fellow living on Crab Key island and _obviously_ he has to find out more about that so he introduces himself to R.J. Dent, a smiling British man who later tries to kill him, fails, and gets a bullet to the head for his troubles. He finds the radioactive materials, gets kidnapped along with a _delightful_ young woman by the name of Honey Ryder, and finally meets the mastermind with the cat and a member of the criminal organisation _SPECTRE_.

007 won't realise the significance of _that_ until much later.

He's beaten and imprisoned and mocked and cajoled, but he escapes, _of course_ he escapes, and makes his way to Dr. No's control centre, overloads the reactor, and kills the son of a bitch in the process. He frees the beautiful shell collector, breaks out of the islands lair, and gets collected by Felix, _good ole' Felix_ , and declares everything a mission success.

* * *

And at the end of it all, there he is, back in M's office with a smug grin on his face and a new-found light blossoming in his heart that only flares even _brighter_ when he's told that the job's not over yet. And he goes, gladly, mission after mission, travelling the world and fighting bad guys and it's every little kid's dream come true. He doesn't take the mandatory two weeks resting period between missions, partly because he heals twice as fast as his double-O counterparts, but mainly because he's making a _difference_ in the world and he wants to take every single second he can if it means he's saving lives. M, of course, is all too glad to agree, thinking of 007 as his personal little killing machine, a notion that the agent himself is not too happy with but won't dissuade if it means he can continue with what he's doing.

He meets Q, _Major Boothroyd_ , who replaces his favoured Beretta with a point-three-two Walther PPK handgun that 007 quickly comes to love just as much. He gets gadgets, _incredible_ gadgets, a briefcase with tear gas and a spring-loaded throwing knife, shoes with bladed tips and watches with garrottes, even an underwater _jetpack_. The old man acts irritated and impatient as the agent pokes and prods at everything in the lab, but they both know he secretly enjoys the youngers playful 'research'.

And Moneypenny, sweet old Moneypenny wise beyond her years, _of which there were many_ , who he jokingly flirts with and gets reprimanded like a school boy every time, who he gets mothered and smothered by, who brings him tea and biscuits when he's sad and lets him yell at her when he's mad, Moneypenny who no one could ever compare to, Moneypenny who reminded him of _family_.

* * *

SPECTRE puts a target on his back and he's sent to Istanbul to retrieve a rouge agent, only to have a Russian hit squad attack him instead. He sleeps with a woman only to have it used against him as blackmail but helps her escape anyway. They make it to Italy, get attacked by an assassin in a maid's uniform, and kill her too. One month later, 007 is blowing up a drug laboratory in Latin America and helping Felix track down Auric Goldfinger. His latest conquest suffocates to death in paint, he drives his first Aston Martin and promptly declares it _his_ , and is captured by a man with a rather _deadly_ hat. He's dragged along to the massacre at Fort Knox, electrocutes a few bad guys, and finally disarms the bomb with the timer stopping on 0:07. Ironic, huh? But he continues on, getting invited to the White House and killing Goldfinger, and crashing into the ocean in a parachute.

* * *

He's given two days rest before being sent off again, thankfully managing to convince Q that the Aston was _crucial_ to the mission, just so he could hold onto it for a bit longer. There's a conference at MI6 for all the double-O's, the first sign that something's not good. The second is when SPECTRE reappears and demands £100 million from NATO in return for two atomic bombs, and really, did _no one_ learn from the war?! He keeps his comments to himself and asks M to send him to the Bahamas, partially to escape the chaos in London, and partially to find Domino, a cigar-smoking lovely looking French girl who got in too deep with the wrong sort of people and agrees to dance the night away with him. Felix arrives just on time of course, and is followed by Q who cannot blend in for the _life_ of him but still manages to berate 007 about his own disguise all the same. He holds his own, fights for control of the ship, and jumps overboard one-too-many times for it to be healthy.

* * *

Tokyo was new. And forever tainted by the death of a fellow agent. 007 chases and manages to kill the assailant, but the damage is done and Henderson is dead. He masquerades as a buyer in order to meet Mr. Osato himself, and much to his chagrin, his disguise is seen through almost immediately. He's captured, interrogated, tortured by a cute redhead in a cocktail dress who promptly frees him once she gets bored. One helicopter ride later, he finds out the location of the secret base, frees the captured American and Russian astronauts, and meets Blofeld, the mysterious head of SPECTRE _who keeps getting in the bloody way_. Self-destructing the spacecraft was surprisingly easy, and he's quickly brought back to London by the Secret Service with a sour taste in his mouth and a strong desire to put a bullet through Blofeld's head.

* * *

He gets his wish not long after, though in a much messier, wetter, _muddier_ manner.

* * *

M allows him a brief moment of victory before sending him to South Africa to investigate a diamond smuggling ring. Once in America, Felix takes over, they cremate the body filled with diamonds which, _yea_ , that was an interesting one, gets simultaneously attacked and loved by different women with jewels for names, a Tiffany and a Ruby and even a Plenty. He scales the walls of a ridiculously tall building, kills yet another Blofeld look-a-like, and placed in a Las Vegas oil pipeline to die. Dodging _that_ particular death was probably the most difficult of all his demises, but he managed _, as usual_ , and 007 made his way to the coast, blowing up a submarine with the real Blofeld inside and destroying the satellite control room as promised.

* * *

He escapes, saves the day, gets the girl, and really, this is all becoming a bit repetitive isn't it? 007 is requested by agencies all over the world, gets more medals that he can count, and even more women, and yea, everything's been kind of blending together recently, but for the first time in his life, he's truly honestly genuinely _happy_.

And then, as usual, he gets too cocky, too careless, and things go _boom_.


	4. Australian-7

**Chapter 4**

His second regeneration wasn't any less painful than the first, though it thankfully didn't last as long. 007 puts it down to regenerating a fully-grown adult being easier than rebuilding an ever-changing teenager, but it wasn't as if he knew how this entire regeneration thing worked anything. Either way, he doesn't complain. He wakes up in MI6 medical with M sitting in the chair next to him, shock and surprise and _awe_ clearly visible in his expression as a cigar remains unlit in his mouth. 007 sighed, shifted, and swore until he found a somewhat-comfortable position for his still healing body, but it was yet another full six minutes later before M finally reacted.

"... 007?"

"Yes sir-"

He abruptly shut his mouth.

Both men stared at in other in surprised silence.

"Was that... Say something else!"

"... I don't know if I want to, sir".

M's eyebrows disappeared into his receding hairline and Bond frowned deeply.

"What is that? Where am I from? What sort of accent is-"

"Australian" M suddenly realised, "You're... You're Australian, now... _Australian_ ".

If the man hadn't already been sitting, 007 would have told him to pull up a chair before he passed out. As it was, he just stared and carefully monitored for any signs of his boss fainting and collapsing on top of him. Which, you know, would've been awkward.

"... You're Australian now".

"So it would seem, sir".

"... Alright".

And that was that.

* * *

M had declared Scottish-007 dead and for the first time in all of his lives, 007 attended a funeral. His _own_ funeral. Since his parents' bodies had never been recovered, he'd never had anything to bury before, so he didn't even know the proper protocol for a _normal_ funeral, let alone how he was supposed to act during his own. He was confused and annoyed and his nose felt too small but his mouth too big and his hair was a lot _fluffier_ than before and kept distracting him but thank _christ_ he was the same height because he didn't think he could take any more changes on top of those and-

"I'm going to ask you to give the eulogy".

He froze.

Next to him, M remained unfazed as the priest at the alter continued his speech.

"... Sir?"

"I'm going to ask you to say a few words" He repeated quietly, "About Scottish-7".

Because that's what they were calling him now. Scottish-7 and Australian-7 and-

" _You want me to give my own eulogy?!_ "

He got a pointed cough from behind him and a subtle dig in the ribs from M, "Keep it down, would you, we don't want everyone to know".

"You're expecting me to talk about _my own death_ ".

"Well, actually, I'm ordering you to" He replied calmly, "After all, nobody knew 007 better than you".

So after the priest's bit and M's bit and then the priests bit again, he's nudged forwards and slowly walks up to the pulpit in a too-small pair of shoes and a too-large black suit. He gazes down at the respectable crowd, only recognising half and being able to name less than a third. M, Moneypenny, and Q stand in the front, next to a damp-eyed Felix and _christ_ , he can't even reach out and tell him he's still alive, because the man that's standing before him now and the one who should have been in that empty casket are _two_ _completely_ _different_ _people_ and he can't even _begin_ to explain how because he doesn't understand it _himself_ so-

 _So_.

He clears his throat, both hands tightly gripping either side of the pulpit, tries not to look too nervous, and begins.

* * *

Walking through familiar halls with familiar faces was absolute _hell_.

Everyone he passed, he smiled at, nodded, said hello, because that was the type of person Scottish-7 was. But his lips felt awkward while smirking, and the words left a bitter taste in his mouth, and by his eleventh "good morning" he had developed a headache and a strong hatred of pleasantries so, clearly, this _wasn't_ the type of person Australian-7 was.

It was only made worse by the realisation that they didn't recognise _him_. Which, obviously, _duh,_ but he hadn't quite realised just how much it would _hurt_ before now. He _knew_ these people; he knew their names and their lives and what they liked to eat every Friday night after a long week at work and-

And they only knew him as the guy who replaced 007.

No one nodded back. No one smiled in return. No one spoke to him at all. To them, he was the new guy, the replacement that had been deep undercover for the last few years or whatever other cover story M had come up with. He _knew_ these people. He was friends with these people and he had to- to _pretend_ that they'd never met before. And it angered him.

* * *

007 quickly learned what type of person Australian-7 was.

He was _angry_.

* * *

He was dull and blunt and so so _bitter_ that whatever new friends he could have made, _new_ friends with his _old_ friends never happened. He was arrogant and snobbish and chased away anyone who came too close. Even M noticed the difference, and began non-too-subtly keeping an eye on him, not wanting to lose his prize weapon so soon after he realised it's full potential. So, he sends him to Portugal, tells him to take a few days off, get his head right, then return fresh eyed and bushy tailed. The man actually believed that he could get his charismatic killing machine back.

007 didn't have the heart to tell him that he really did bury the Scotsman that day.

But he did as he was told, ever the good little agent, and within 30 minutes of arriving, he'd pulled over at a beach, dashed from his car, and prevented a woman from committing suicide.

 _Well okay then_.

The woman- "Tracy, please, Mr. Bond" -turned out to be the daughter of the major European crime syndicate leader, Draco himself, who was quick to tell him all about her troubled past and offer him information in return for marrying his daughter. It seemed like a win-win to 007. He returns to London with a spring in his step and a smile on his face and ignores the strange looks he gets and the blank gazes from his previous forms friends and gladly slams his resignation letter down on M's desk. He returns to the bright red-haired girl who's slowly but surely winning over his heart and sweeps her off her feet. It's been so long since he had someone who cared about him, truly cared about him, someone who smiled and laughed and cried and did it all with James. _James_. Not Bond, not Scottish-7, not Australian-7. Just James. And if, in the process, he managed to take down SPECTRE for the third time? Well, that was just an extra bonus.

Returning to Switzerland left him feeling almost melancholic, as he vividly remembered the first time he had regenerated, the first time he had a new face, new hands, a new voice, the first time he realised that he could start over... and the last time that he had been _just_ James Bond.

He reluctantly recontacts M and is bribed into returning to the service before going off to arrest Blofeld, because _of course_ that son of a bitch had survived the explosion. He catches him, saves his now-fiancé for the umpteenth time that week, and destroys SPECTRE's latest headquarters in the process. All in a day's work in the life of a double-o. And he thinks _this is_ _it_ , this is his new life, or at least his _newest_ , this is who Australian-7 is meant to be.

Someone who's _happy_.

He blows off M, finds himself an Aston Martin, and marries the love of his life.

* * *

He should have known it was too good to be true.

* * *

His momentary happiness, his one chance of freedom, his first love... it all came at a price. A price that Tracy wasn't meant to pay. Tracy who was young and beautiful and clever, _oh so very clever_. Tracy who had made him reconsider his spying career choice, the only choice he ever thought he'd had, Tracy who had made him think that a simple life would be _enough_ , Tracy who had finally made him realise why his mum had stayed with his father despite all the lies and the pain and the regenerations, Tracy who had made him feel _human_.

Well.

If this was the cost of being human, he never wanted to feel anything like it ever again.

So he holds her close, kisses her cheek, promises her "don't worry, we've got all the time in the world" and then shoots himself in the head.

* * *

Maybe this time he'd stay dead.


End file.
